It's a huge cliche, especially in geek circles, but it still imight be my favorite:

The long day wanes: the slow moon climbs: the deep
Moans round with many voices. Come, my friends,
'T is not too late to seek a newer world.
Push off, and sitting well in order smite
The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds
To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths
Of all the western stars, until I die.
It may be that the gulfs will wash us down:
It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles,
And see the great Achilles, whom we knew.
Tho' much is taken, much abides; and tho'
We are not now that strength which in old days
Moved earth and heaven, that which we are, we are;
One equal temper of heroic hearts,
Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.

Then out spake brave Horatius,
The Captain of the Gate:
"To every man upon this earth
Death cometh soon or late.
And how can man die better
Than facing fearful odds,
For the ashes of his fathers,
And the temples of his gods?"

The first is from the great John Dryden's translation of Horace, Odes, I, ix. I get shivers down my spine whenever I read these lines.

Quote:

Happy the man and happy he alone,
He who can call today his own.
He who, secure within, can say
Tomorrow do thy worst for I have lived today.
Come fair or foul or rain or shine
The joys I have possessed in spite of Fate are mine.
Not Heaven itself upon the past has power
But what has been has been and I have had my hour.

Secondly I'd choose Sonnet 23 of John Milton which speaks of a dream he had of his dead wife. Milton had been blind for years when he wrote the poem and the last line is heartbreaking.

Quote:

Methought I saw my late espousèd Saint
Brought to me like Alcestis from the grave,
Whom Jove's great son to her glad Husband gave,
Rescu'd from death by force though pale and faint.

Mine as whom washt from spot of child-bed taint,
Purification in the old Law did save,
And such, as yet once more I trust to have
Full sight of her in Heaven without restraint,

Came vested all in white, pure as her mind:
Her face was vail'd, yet to my fancied sight,
Love, sweetness, goodness, in her person shin'd

So clear, as in no face with more delight.
But O as to embrace me she enclin'd,
I wak'd, she fled, and day brought back my night.

Now as I was young and easy under the apple boughsAbout the lilting house and happy as the grass was green,The night above the dingle starry,Time let me hail and climbGolden in the heydays of his eyes,And honored among wagons I was prince of the apple townsAnd once below a time I lordly had the trees and leavesTrail with daisies and barleyDown the rivers of the windfall light...

Nothing I cared, in the lamb white days, that time would take meUp to the swallow thronged loft by the shadow of my hand,In the moon that is always rising,Nor that riding to sleepI should hear him fly with the high fieldsAnd wake to the farm forever fled from the childless land.Oh as I was young and easy in the mercy of his means,Time held me green and dyingThough I sang in my chains like the sea.

Of the ones that haven't been mentioned yet, I'd say the first couple paragraphs, maybe the entire first page, of Lolita. Nabokov would be a genuinely appreciated outright poet if he could just have made 5 to 10 pages along the same lines (not that his other stuff doesn't have rhythm and compactness of imagery.)

Of the ones that haven't been mentioned yet, I'd say the first couple paragraphs, maybe the entire first page, of Lolita. Nabokov would be a genuinely appreciated outright poet if he could just have made 5 to 10 pages along the same lines (not that his other stuff doesn't have rhythm and compactness of imagery.)

Good call! I also like his actual poem from Pale Fire, though I think maybe we aren't supposed to.

Do I dare
Disturb the universe?
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.

For I have known them all already, known them all:
Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;
I know the voices dying with a dying fall
Beneath the music from a farther room.
So how should I presume?

But my favorite poet of all is Gerard Manley Hopkins. His unusual rhythm and word choice make him a bit of challenge, but I just love it.

Quote:

from 'Pied Beauty':
Glory be to God for dappled things –
For skies of couple-colour as a brinded cow;
For rose-moles all in stipple upon trout that swim;
Fresh-firecoal chestnut-falls; finches’ wings;
Landscape plotted and pieced – fold, fallow, and plough;
And áll trádes, their gear and tackle and trim.

Quote:

from 'Spring and Fall':
Márgarét, áre you gríeving
Over Goldengrove unleaving?
Leáves like the things of man, you
With your fresh thoughts care for, can you?
Ah! ás the heart grows older
It will come to such sights colder
By and by, nor spare a sigh
Though worlds of wanwood leafmeal lie;
And yet you wíll weep and know why.

I love formal poetry. I don't think I could choose a favorite Shakespearean sonnet.

If I can offer a poem not in English, Goethe's 'Wandrers Nachtlied' is utter beauty and peace. I think that even without knowing the meaning of the words, the sense comes across somehow (English translations don't do it justice, of course).

…We shall be
Part of the mighty universal whole,
And through all aeons mix and mingle with the Kosmic Soul!

We shall be notes in that great Symphony
Whose cadence circles through the rhythmic spheres,
And all the live World’s throbbing heart shall be
One with our heart; the stealthy creeping years
Have lost their terrors now, we shall not die,
The Universe itself shall be our Immortality.

Also the third stanza of Yeats' "The Stolen Child":

Quote:

Where the wandering water gushes
From the hills above Glen-Car,
In pools among the rushes
That scarce could bathe a star,
We seek for slumbering trout
And whispering in their ears
Give them unquiet dreams;
Leaning softly out
From ferns that drop their tears
Over the young streams.
Come away, O human child!
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
For the world's more full of weeping than you can understand.

And all of Dorothy Parker's "Indian Summer" but I'll just quote the last verse:

Quote:

But now I know the things I know
And do the things I do,
And if you do not like me so,
To hell, my love, with you.

It’s no go the merrygoround, it’s no go the rickshaw,
All we want is a limousine and a ticket for the peepshow.
Their knickers are made of crêpe-de-chine, their shoes are made of python,
Their halls are lined with tiger rugs and their walls with heads of bison.

John MacDonald found a corpse, put it under the sofa,
Waited till it came to life and hit it with a poker,
Sold its eyes for souvenirs, sold its blood for whisky,
Kept its bones for dumb-bells to use when he was fifty.

I love the way it almost but never rhymes.

__________________
"East is East and West is West and if you take cranberries and stew them like applesauce they taste much more like prunes than rhubarb does."Purveyor of fine science fiction since 1982.

Alexander Pope, from Epistles to Several Persons, Epistle 2: On the Characters of Women:

Quote:

Wise wretch! with pleasures too refin'd to please;
With too much spirit to be e'er at ease;
With too much quickness ever to be taught;
With too much thinking to have common thought:
You purchase pain with all that joy can give,
And die of nothing but a rage to live.

Not seeing much love for the titans of English poetry here, other than Shakespeare. They're titans for a reason.

-Fifty years and others live in the houses,
the street cars have new signs and new
leather on the seats.
-A hundred years and the cars have stopped
in long rows, side by side they stand in never
ending caravans, piled up in large heaps,
lie with their wheels up like dead insects.
- A thousand years and the iron girder
is a red line in the sand.

from 'An Essay on Man'
Hope springs eternal in the human breast;
Man never is, but always to be blessed:
The soul, uneasy and confined from home,
Rests and expatiates in a life to come.

I'll plump for Keats:

Quote:

from 'Endymion'*
A thing of beauty is a joy for ever:
Its loveliness increases; it will never
Pass into nothingness; but still will keep
A bower quiet for us, and a sleep
Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing.

And Shelley's Ozymandias (my favorite individual poem):

Quote:

My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings;
Look on my Works, ye Mighty, and despair!
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal Wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away.”

And Byron:

Quote:

She walks in beauty, like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
And all that’s best of dark and bright
Meet in her aspect and her eyes;
Thus mellowed to that tender light
Which heaven to gaudy day denies.

A damsel with a dulcimer
In a vision once I saw:
It was an Abyssinian maid
And on her dulcimer she played,
Singing of Mount Abora.
Could I revive within me
Her symphony and song,
To such a deep delight ’twould win me,
That with music loud and long,
I would build that dome in air,
That sunny dome! those caves of ice!
And all who heard should see them there,
And all should cry, Beware! Beware!
His flashing eyes, his floating hair!
Weave a circle round him thrice,
And close your eyes with holy dread
For he on honey-dew hath fed,
And drunk the milk of Paradise.

This is my favorite complete poem (though it is only a fragment of the whole vision), and speaking it aloud still gives me chills. I was really hoping someone would contribute a portion of it!

James Dickey Cherrylog Road. Best poem ever written about a junkyard. And sex.

And I to my motorcycle
Parked like the soul of the junkyard

Restored, a bicycle fleshed
With power, and tore off
Up Highway 106, continually
Drunk on the wind in my mouth,
Wringing the handlebar for speed,
Wild to be wreckage forever.

Dickey was a fantastic poet, but I wonder if people remember him always more for Deliverance (and poor Ned Beatty) than for his poetry. Looking for the Buckhead Boys is another great by him, especially if told in the southern drawl.

A great poem, prominently featured in George R.R. Martin's Fevre Dream.

Quote:

Originally Posted by DaphneBlack

...And Shelley's Ozymandias (my favorite individual poem)....

I've loved it since high school. The Watchmen association is just a bonus.

Ah, so many favorites. Guess I'll start out with Whitman:

Washington’s Monument, February 1885

Ah, not this marble, dead and cold:
Far from its base and shaft expanding—the round zones circling, comprehending,
Thou, Washington, art all the world’s, the continents’ entire — not yours alone, America,
Europe’s as well, in every part, castle of lord or laborer’s cot,
Or frozen North, or sultry South—the African’s—the Arab’s in his tent,

Old Asia’s there with venerable smile, seated amid her ruins;
(Greets the antique the hero new? ‘tis but the same—the heir legitimate, continued ever,
The indomitable heart and arm—proofs of the never-broken line,
Courage, alertness, patience, faith, the same—e’en in defeat defeated not, the same: )

Wherever sails a ship, or house is built on land, or day or night,
Through teeming cities’ streets, indoors or out, factories or farms,
Now, or to come, or past—where patriot wills existed or exist,
Wherever Freedom, pois’d by Toleration, sway’d by Law,
Stands or is rising thy true monument.

If I can offer a poem not in English, Goethe's 'Wandrers Nachtlied' is utter beauty and peace. I think that even without knowing the meaning of the words, the sense comes across somehow (English translations don't do it justice, of course).

(Over all the hills, it is calm; in all the treetops, you feel barely a breath; the birds are silent in the woods. Only wait! soon you will rest too.)

I've been pleasantly surprised at the number of responses, and the variance of them. You can really see how the verse can impact people, and how the sharing of verse can evoke emotion. There are some wonderful lines here, hope to see more.

Shelley's "Ozymandias" has been mentioned a couple of times, for which I am grateful, so I'll have to offer Yeats's "If", at the final octet:

Quote:

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with Kings—nor lose the common touch,
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,
And—which is more—you’ll be a Man, my son!

Since what would have been my first choice (The Second Coming) and second option (Ozymandias) have been mentioned, I'll contribute this excerpt of Robert Browning's My Last Duchess:

Quote:

She had
A heart—how shall I say?—too soon made glad,
Too easily impressed; she liked whate’er
She looked on, and her looks went everywhere.
Sir, ‘t was all one! My favour at her breast,
The dropping of the daylight in the West,
The bough of cherries some officious fool
Broke in the orchard for her, the white mule
She rode with round the terrace—all and each
Would draw from her alike the approving speech,
Or blush, at least.

I love it because Nesace is speaking directly to the Ineffable, without need of an intercessor; and because it's pretty much exactly what I would say:

Spirit! that dwellest where,
In the deep sky,
The terrible and fair,
In beauty vie!
Beyond the line of blue-
The boundary of the star
Which turneth at the view
Of thy barrier and thy bar-
Of the barrier overgone
By the comets who were cast
From their pride and from their throne
To be drudges till the last-
To be carriers of fire
(The red fire of their heart)
With speed that may not tire
And with pain that shall not part-
Who livest- that we know-
In Eternity- we feel-
But the shadow of whose brow
What spirit shall reveal?
Tho' the beings whom thy Nesace,
Thy messenger hath known
Have dream'd for thy Infinity
A model of their own-
Thy will is done, O God!
The star hath ridden high
Thro' many a tempest, but she rode
Beneath thy burning eye;
And here, in thought, to thee-
In thought that can alone
Ascend thy empire and so be
A partner of thy throne-
By winged Fantasy,
My embassy is given,
Till secrecy shall knowledge be
In the environs of Heaven.'

Since what would have been my first choice (The Second Coming) and second option (Ozymandias) have been mentioned, I'll contribute this excerpt of Robert Browning's My Last Duchess:

I remember My Last Duchess from my junior year in high school. I had to do a presentation on it, and discovered the woman being spoken of was Lucrezia Borgia. When I mentioned her father was Rodrigo Borgia, who became Pope Alexander VI, one fellow student, who was more innocent than I was, asked how he could be pope and have kids. I replied "Just like any other man I guess."

Then out spake brave Horatius,
The Captain of the Gate:
"To every man upon this earth
Death cometh soon or late.
And how can man die better
Than facing fearful odds,
For the ashes of his fathers,
And the temples of his gods?"

I love this one too. It's been a long time since I read the poem, need to get it out again.

Looking over the favorite passages quoted here, I notice something. Though from every quarter and walk of life, on every theme -- from bicycles to Kubla Khan -- the passages people chose to single out all seem to flow with especial grace. They are the kind of passages where every choice of word seems perfect and no substitute would do; they flow like incantations or timeless aphorisms, and impart a sense of the numenous to each sentiment.

Sternvogel: I find this choice very interesting, because I'm a person who can be very happy with small things and everyday joys. Do you think, as Browning seems to impliy, that there is something offputting about this quality? Or is it just that the lady in question lacked a sense of perspective or proportion?

Some more good Kipling - "Recessional," written for Queen Victoria's Diamond Jubilee in 1897:

God of our fathers, known of old,
Lord of our far-flung battle line,
Beneath whose awful hand we hold
Dominion over palm and pine—
Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,
Lest we forget—lest we forget!

The tumult and the shouting dies;
The Captains and the Kings depart:
Still stands Thine ancient sacrifice,
An humble and a contrite heart.
Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,
Lest we forget—lest we forget!

Far-called our navies melt away;
On dune and headland sinks the fire:
Lo, all our pomp of yesterday
Is one with Nineveh and Tyre!
Judge of the Nations, spare us yet,
Lest we forget—lest we forget!

If, drunk with sight of power, we loose
Wild tongues that have not Thee in awe,
Such boastings as the Gentiles use,
Or lesser breeds without the Law—
Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,
Lest we forget—lest we forget!

For heathen heart that puts her trust
In reeking tube and iron shard,
All valiant dust that builds on dust,
And guarding calls not Thee to guard,
For frantic boast and foolish word-
Thy Mercy on Thy People, Lord!

I cannot find my way: there is no star
In all the shrouded heavens anywhere;
And there is not a whisper in the air
Of any living voice but one so far
That I can hear it only as a bar
Of lost, imperial music, played when fair
And angel fingers wove, and unaware,
Dead leaves to garlands where no roses are.

No, there is not a glimmer, nor a call,
For one that welcomes, welcomes when he fears,
The black and awful chaos of the night;
For through it all--above, beyond it all--
I know the far sent message of the years,
I feel the coming glory of the light.

Dear Friends

Dear Friends, reproach me not for what I do,
Nor counsel me, nor pity me; nor say
That I am wearing half my life away
For bubble-work that only fools pursue.
And if my bubbles be too small for you,
Blow bigger then your own: the games we play
To fill the frittered minutes of a day,
Good glasses are to read the spirit through.

And whoso reads may get him some shrewd skill;
And some unprofitable scorn resign,
To praise the very thing that he deplores;
So, friends (dear friends), remember, if you will,
The shame I win for singing is all mine,
The gold I miss for dreaming is all yours.

Looking over the favorite passages quoted here, I notice something. Though from every quarter and walk of life, on every theme -- from bicycles to Kubla Khan -- the passages people chose to single out all seem to flow with especial grace. They are the kind of passages where every choice of word seems perfect and no substitute would do; they flow like incantations or timeless aphorisms, and impart a sense of the numenous to each sentiment.

I think this is right. What makes me love a poem, first, is how it sounds. And as you say, the idea that each word is the exact right one, that the poet has somehow found the ineffably perfect words to put next to each other. I think that's exactly how the sense of the 'numinous' is conveyed -- almost a feeling that human skill alone cannot have forged this work.

I also tend to find the topic less important, but looking through the selection I've made, it's apparent that my 'very favorite' do tend to cluster around 'big' themes, in particular the human longing to understand our human condition.

Oh! I have slipped the surly bonds of earth,
And danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings;
Sunward I've climbed, and joined the tumbling mirth
Of sun-split clouds, --and done a hundred things
You have not dreamed of --Wheeled and soared and swung
High in the sunlit silence. Hov'ring there
I've chased the shouting wind along, and flung
My eager craft through footless halls of air...
Up, up the long, delirious, burning blue
I've topped the wind-swept heights with easy grace
Where never lark or even eagle flew --
And, while with silent lifting mind I've trod
The high untrespassed sanctity of space,
Put out my hand, and touched the face of God.

I think this is right. What makes me love a poem, first, is how it sounds. And as you say, the idea that each word is the exact right one, that the poet has somehow found the ineffably perfect words to put next to each other. I think that's exactly how the sense of the 'numinous' is conveyed -- almost a feeling that human skill alone cannot have forged this work.

But vastness blurs and time beats level. Enough! the Resurrection,
A heart's-clarion! Away grief's gasping, joyless days, dejection.
Across my foundering deck shone
A beacon, an eternal beam. Flesh fade, and mortal trash
Fall to the residuary worm; world's wildfire, leave but ash:
In a flash, at a trumpet crash,
I am all at once what Christ is, since he was what I am, and
This Jack, joke, poor potsherd, patch, matchwood, immortal diamond,
Is immortal diamond.

"I am all at once what Christ is, since he was what I am...immortal diamond" is on Mom's (and eventually my) gravestone.

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